


Had You Been Born a Roman

by jaded79



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: War of the Damned
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-19
Updated: 2013-08-02
Packaged: 2017-12-08 22:34:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaded79/pseuds/jaded79
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Premise of the fic - Marcus Crassus's comment to Spartacus "Would that you had been born a Roman and stood at my side..." (or something to that effect).  That got me thinking... what IF Spartacus had been born a Roman?  What if he wasn't on the Rebel side in the War of the Damned.  How different would things be?  </p><p>I'm going to take a lot of liberties here so don't expect this to be canon in any way shape or form.  I will also rework things to fit my purpose when I can...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first Spartacus fic that will require multiple chapters, and I'm excited about it, but also a bit nervous. It's only my second Spartacus fic ever - and the first one had no dialogue - so I'm especially nervous because I feel like there's no way I can write the stilted speech that was done on the show. So I'm trying to do it justice, but please be kind.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you like and please let me know if you think I should continue!

Spartacus stood silent on the cliff that overlooked the coming morning’s battlefield.  The men were small in the distance, a formidable threat.  There were but hours before battle would overtake the whole area.  Hours before men and steel and blood would clash in the heat of daybreak. 

“Spartacus!,” a voice boomed and he felt the touch of a strong palm clap him hard on the back.  He didn’t need to turn. 

Marcus Crassus let his hand linger at Spartacus’s back and Spartacus smiled without looking at his friend.  They’d known each other their whole lives.  Romans, through and through. 

“Look at the tiny rebel camp compared to our own horde of soldiers… the fucking rebels must be pissing and shitting themselves,” Tiberius Crassus said from his father’s side.  The boy’s voice was stronger than his years, his cockiness evident in his stance.  Spartacus turned his head away from his view of the still peaceful lands and met his godson’s eye. 

“Don’t be too sure, Tiberius.  Remember, they’re led by gladiators.” 

“From that shit Bathiatus’s ludus,” came a snort of derision from behind them and Spartacus stilled, knowing it was Caesar.  He didn’t like the man.  He respected him for his name, but he still didn’t like the man.  The fellow Roman was untrustworthy, and he didn’t understand what was at stake here – this was for Rome.  The rebels must perish for the good of the republic. 

Spartacus cut his eyes at the approaching blonde man.  Caesar in turn raised an eyebrow… a challenge.  Clearly the disdain for each other was more than mutual. 

“And a seer,” Tiberius said causing all them to look at him questioningly.  He rushed to clarify, “the gladiators have a seer… all the men are talking about it.” 

It was Spartacus’s torn to snort, for he did not believe in such things, turning back to watch the rebel camp that opposed the massive Roman army.  Rebels…their numbers small, their chances for victory even smaller.  A seer meant nothing.  If anything, the seer would only _see_ them to their deaths faster.  “Come,” he said, giving a nod at Marcus, “let’s break bread and prepare for the morn’s victory.” 

* * *

 

She stood there in the soft breeze, her garments fluttering slightly, her black hair floating about her shoulders.  She watched the top of the hill in the distance.  The tiny specks of men she glimpsed there. 

 _Great and unfortunate things_. 

“Sura,” Agron’s voice cut through the air behind her but she didn’t turn.  She watched the men in the distance turn from where they stood, disappearing down the mountain to their Roman camp.  She watched until they were no longer there, and then glanced back to meet Agron’s green-eyed gaze.  The tall man looked worse for wear given the events of the last few weeks.  His half-healed wounds were bandaged, his eyes weary but still held the strength of a man whose will was far stronger than even the strongest body, the largest army. 

Agron could tell in her eyes that she’d seen something, the question forming on his brow. 

She shook her head, partly to clear it, and partly to change his course before he asked.  She didn’t want to share.  The time to share would come later.  After. 

Nasir appeared at Agron’s side and she met his eyes for but a moment, yet somehow it was long enough for understanding to pass between them.  Nasir was like that.  He had been her confidant here for as long as she’d been with the rebels.  Nasir’s dark eyes shone suddenly, a frown crossing his face.  She could see his fear there.  A fear she shared.  A fear that she actually knew would be realized. 

_Great and unfortunate things._

“Come,” she said, her voice strong and not the least bit hesitant despite the thoughts coursing through her mind, “let us prepare for battle.”  She paused, swallowing the truth, swallowing the fear, resolving herself to what would be, “for victory.” 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hours before battle...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you like! Thank you for reading!

_She stared into the blue eyes of the man who towered over her.  Her face was stoic.  She would not show fear, even as fear itself threatened to devour her from the inside out.  The stones beneath her knees cut at her bare skin, her garments tattered and torn, pooling about her crumpled and beaten body.  Her hands were bound, held to her back, but she found it a blessing.  The moment she’d been bound she’d found her hands were steady again.  The trembling and shaking that had wracked her body since capture had ceased, and that in itself was a blessing she was most aware of.  She did not look afraid.  She would not look afraid._

_He eyed her, pacing the small space in front of her, and she could not read anything in those cold, harsh eyes.  He was a Roman… everything about him was as harsh and cold as the bloodied twin swords he gripped in his hands._

Sura jolted awake from the nightmare that wasn’t actually a nightmare, but more a vision of what would come.  Naevia was at her side in an instant, her eyes wide and worried.  Sura opened her mouth to reassure her… to tell her friend that she was fine… that all would be fine.  But a sob escaped her lips and tears flooded her eyes in her body’s ultimate betrayal.  Bad enough her mind betrayed her the night before battle, but now her body betrayed her too. 

Naevia’s arms encircled her, pulling Sura into her, and they embraced as Sura sobbed.  She would die in that place she dreamed about, she would die a Roman captive, and they’d hang her body from a cross among countless others that she deemed friend – a warning to all.  She’d dreamed of the crucifixion… she knew the searing pain and numbness of the nails through her wrists and yet she dreaded the experience itself.  Feeling in her visions what will come couldn’t compare to actually experiencing it, she was certain. 

As she cried she could hear Naevia shushing her softly, her friend’s hand stroking her hair, lending comfort even when Sura knew it was pointless.  The result would be the same regardless of comfort, regardless of fear.  The result was the result and the end would come tomorrow… the end would come swiftly by the blood-stained sword of a Roman called Spartacus. 

* * *

Nasir forced himself to quell the shivers that kept threatening to rise up within his body as he lay in bed with Agron.  He should be sleeping, and yet he could not.  He was not ready for battle.  He had once thought Agron lost to him, and he couldn’t bear the idea that Agron could very well be lost to him tomorrow.  Or Nasir could be lost himself… although he found that thought less disconcerting than the first.  If it was his time, then it would be his time.  And he would die valiantly in battle, fighting beside his heart.  Tears welled up in his eyes and he forced himself to swallow thickly, to staunch the flow of salty water from his ducts. 

“You don’t need to fight it,” he heard Agron whisper quietly in his ear and his heart clenched in his chest. 

He turned over so that he could face his lover, his companion, his friend, and his heart.  “We have fought the Romans before,” Nasir said softly, “and yet I’ve never been this afraid.”

Agron’s smile was slight, his eyes were earnest in their gaze, his face still bruised in places from when he’d been captured.  Agron shifted forward, brushing his lips against Nasir’s neck, lingering there. 

“Are you not afraid?,” Nasir asked in the silence, bold now that Agron was no longer looking at him and he could no longer see the eyes that both bolstered him and broke him in more ways than one. 

“Only that I shall lose my heart,” Agron breathed out, and if it weren’t for the feel of Agron’s warm breath against Nasir’s skin as he spoke, Nasir might have thought it imagined.  Nasir opened his mouth to speak but was silenced by Agron’s voice as he continued.  “It is no accident that we have only ever suffered from wound in each other’s absence.  We are strongest when together.  A man parted from his heart is but half a man, and as long as you are by my side, I shall always be whole.” 

“Then you shall always be whole,” Nasir finally spoke after several moments of silence, “as I shall never be parted from your side, neither by Roman hand nor any other.”  Agron settled his head against Nasir’s chest and listened as their bodies relaxed into a state of togetherness, both worried over the morning to come and what it would bring, but both comforted by two hearts beating nearly as one. 

* * *

“You should be sleeping,” Laeta said softly from the doorway of the tent.  She stood demurely before him, her head tilted down and slightly to the side, the moonlight catching the redness of her hair, and she smiled.  It was a beautiful sight to behold as Spartacus looked up from the chair where he sat poring over the plans for the coming battle. 

“And what raises you from your own bed this night?,” Spartacus spoke, his eyes surveying her low-cut garment, the smooth expanse of skin revealed by the slit in her dress beginning at the thigh.  It was a silly question, but still after months of fucking without shame, it was very Spartacus and Laeta for him to say it.  She would look pensive and thoughtful, demure in that way she had, but with a fire behind her eyes.  And she’d flirt shamelessly, and he’d rise from where he sat and take her right there – wherever they were, it mattered not. 

They were not lovers, there was no name for them that he would claim.  He did not love her.  He had never _loved_ a woman, a man, or anyone for that matter that he could recall.  And he felt in his heart that he never would.  Instead he loved fucking them.  And he was gentle and honest in his manner about it, but rough enough that within minutes after rising to the bait Laeta so obviously offered when she parted her thighs, she was calling his name into his shoulder as he rammed himself into her very core. 

As they struggled in their mutual rhythms towards release, Spartacus’s mind was not on the task at hand, but rather at the events that would come in the morning, at the events that would bring victory and glory to him, to Crassus, and to Rome.  It was with equal anticipation and equal dread that he awaited the beginning of the coming battle.  It was the anticipation that made him certain of victory, and it was the dread that reminded him that beyond all else, and despite the opinions of so many of his Roman brethren, he was still yet human, still yet just a man. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found this chapter relatively easy to write, so I'm hoping that I'm actually doing this story justice and not just throwing stuff out there that doesn't make sense. There's a couple of surprises in this chapter... and although it is supposed to represent the battle from the Series Finale, it clearly doesn't end the way the series did to allow for more chapters and more storyline. 
> 
> Hope you like!

Spartacus pulled his mount up astride Marcus and Tiberius’s mounts.  The day had broken and the army was at the ready.  The Imperator and other more highly regarded Romans – Spartacus, Caesar, Tiberius, most notably – would wait at the back, sending the soldiers into the rebel masses first to thin the herd before the others joined the fight. 

His palms itched for battle.  This was his least favorite part.  The waiting.  Spartacus was a soldier and he’d prefer charging headlong into the rebel masses with the peons below his station, swords drawn and slashing as he cut down as many of those rebel fucks as he could. 

“Look at their size compared to ours… they’ll look for fools by the time we’re done,” Caesar commented, stopping his own horse to Spartacus’s other side. 

“Crixus is many things, but I wouldn’t count fool among them,” Spartacus replied, his eyes meeting Marcus’s as the Imperator nodded his agreement. 

“Would that I had taken that fucking Gaul’s head when I had the chance,” Tiberius muttered, clearly thinking about the events of a few weeks before when many of the rebel slaves had been captured. 

Inwardly, Spartacus sighed at the thought.  They’d been so close to ending this whole rebel debacle.  They had the gladiator Gaul, Crixus, and his right hand general, Agron, in their possession.  They’d hung Agron to a cross as a message to the other captives to loosen their tongues and give up the location of the remaining rebels, and Crixus… they’d been seconds from separating his head from his neck when the rebels Gannicus and Varro had stormed their camp with several others.  They’d held the Romans’ attention while other rebels had freed those held captive. 

By the time the Romans had realized what was happening, all but five captives had been spared their fate. 

Those five though… Tiberius in a fit after the ruse and rescue had ordered them beheaded, their bodies marred with knife, then crucified, and their heads mounted on stakes beside each cross.  It had been a gruesome sight Spartacus beheld that night.  While he would never feel pity for any insolent rebels – they were slaves after all, meant only to serve at master’s hand – the sight of Tiberius’s actions had still turned his stomach. 

“You’ll have that chance today, son,” Marcus said, jarring Spartacus from his private thoughts. 

“Sound the horn,” Spartacus said and Caesar held his hand up in the signal for attack. 

* * *

Despite the evening’s waterworks and only two or three hours of sleep, Sura felt steady on the desert sands surrounded by the others.  The Roman army facing them was massive, looming in the distance, a sea of shields and swords, spears and polished armor soon to be tainted with blood. 

She met Crixus’s eye from where he stood beside Naevia.  He looked weakened but yet still strong.  He’d taken a spear to his back not long before, had nearly lost his life, but his body had rallied as it always had even as a gladiator and champion. 

“Stubborn ass that one, the fucking Gaul will be fine,” Agron said softly to her side, his voice laced with equal sarcasm and equal endearment.   

She smiled and cast a sideways glance at him, her eyebrow raised. 

He grinned, “as am I, the thought is clear on your face.  It would take more than a few Roman fucks to remove the undefeated Gaul _and_ Agron from the lands East of the Rhine from this world.” 

Her eyes flickered to his bandaged hands, to the makeshift shield forged by loving hands, even as he spoke.  She smiled meeting his eyes, seeing the surety there, the strength. 

“Only the Gods themselves will take _you_ from this world, Agron.”  She didn’t clarify if it was vision that told her so, or merely idle speculation.  The fates were something she would not share, for they were her own burden, and she would not have that burden weigh down anyone else in the moments before such an important battle. 

The ambiguity didn’t faze Agron in the slightest.  “I am proud to call you sister,” he said, his face suddenly serious, “stay at Nasir’s and my side.  I would not have you robbed from us on this day.” 

She smiled softly but was saved from speech when Crixus addressed the crowd. 

“Today, on this day, we are _all_ slaves, gladiators, brothers, sisters, equals… let us show those Roman shits the warriors that they through their own misdeeds and mistreatments have forged.  Let us litter the field of battle with Roman blood!”  Crixus laid his eyes on Naevia as he finished speaking, and he nodded to her.  She hollered out a battle cry, her eyes fierce, her body taut and tense at the ready, and the others followed suit, raising their weapons and screaming their cries for blood, for war, for victory.  Sura closed her eyes, letting the moment overtake her, and then – as she opened them – she herself let loose with her own primal cry, extending her arm, thrusting the weapon she held into the air.  They began to run, headlong across the land that stretched before them, the land that divided Romans and Rebels, toward the surging sea of Roman soldiers that moved toward them. 

When she reached the right place – the place discussed in strategy the night before – she outstretched her arms and screamed for the rebel force to stop.  Every rebel, attune to her cry, halted in their tracks, steadying themselves in anticipation, bodies poised and at the ready for her signal. 

“Hold,” she screamed in the deafening roar of the approaching Romans. 

“Hold,” Crixus echoed. 

“Hold!,” reiterated Naevia. 

“Come you Roman cunts,” Agron hissed. 

The Roman army was but seconds from being upon them, Sura screamed out, “Hold!,” one more time and then the ground before them gave way with a rumbling that shook the earth, Roman frontrunners dropping down from sight into a long trench that spanned the whole battlefield, impaling their bodies upon the stakes and spears that jutted out from the trench’s bottom. 

As the Romans struggled to halt in their tracks to minimize their losses, the call for archers came from Crixus and arrows came from the back, flying out and hitting the Romans still standing at the trench’s edge.  A sound lit the air from the Roman army and those at the trench’s edge fell to one knee, raising shields to fend off the aerial assault. 

“They fall to expected position,” Agron muttered. 

“Let us show them one less expected,” Sura smiled, a glint in her eye.  Then the rebels were working together to pull free the ladders they’d painstakingly placed beneath the sands, raising them, letting them fall heavily to bridge the gap in the land, pinning the Romans less fortunate to the ground beneath each ladder’s weight. 

Crixus let out a cry of words that Sura didn’t quite catch and then he was running across the ladder, leaping into the air, sword drawn and ready for blood, slashing Roman soldiers as he landed, Naevia but only moments behind him. 

Sura followed Agron, Nasir at her back, and then she was lost in the chaos of battle, forging her way forward, her spear finding its way into the flesh of all Romans who engaged her. 

A fireball catapulted by the Romans flew overhead and she could hear the screams, of battle and of terror as it impacted with those battling – both Romans and Rebels alike.  A second one landed in her wake and she fell to the ground, rolling out of the way, leaving her spear where it lay and snatching up a sword left behind by one of the fallen.  

She surged into the thick of battle.  She’d lost track of the others, of Naevia and Crixus, of Agron and Nasir.  She was clear to purpose and though she feared her fate, she would not shy from it.

The clash of steel was all around her and her own sword rang out as she whirled to face an oncoming attacker, her eyes raised to meet the cold blue eyes she knew so well from her visions.  _Spartacus._

* * *

He was caught off guard when their eyes met, taken aback by the raw emotion in the woman rebel’s face.  The sheer beauty of her features, so different from others he had encountered.  Her hair swirled about her face as she spun to face him, her movements matching his blow for blow as their swords deflected.  Her eyes did not move from his as they fought.  It was like her sword play was instinctual, like she was moved by a higher power. 

Suddenly her eyes shifted from his at the sound of a cry of pain and agony.  He should have advanced, cut her down in her distraction, but instead he turned to look at what drew her attention. 

The rebel he knew as Naevia – lover of the undefeated Gaul, and the whole reason the house of Bathiatus had fallen at the hands of the gladiators – had fallen to her knees, Caesar was pulling his sword free from her body and she blinked, her eyes seemingly locked on the woman rebel, blood bubbling forth from her mouth as she fell to her side. 

“Naevia!,” a voice he only assumed to be Crixus yelled from somewhere before the clang of metal, the clash of Roman and Rebel steel, overtook any other sound. 

Spartacus swung his swords, a glancing blow delivered by one to the now distracted and distraught woman to his front.  Her eyes met his and there was a reflective disappointment to them.  Not the hate he was accustomed to in the gaze of most of the rebels, but instead a disappointed resolve that he couldn’t understand. 

She stumbled back slightly, blood now leaking from the flesh wound on her arm, the price of distraction. 

She screamed in frustration – or anger – and advanced, her sword flailing wildly before clashing with his again. 

The thunderous sound of horses shook the earth at their feet and then Marcus was there, atop his horse, coming from behind, his sword cutting down the woman with a glancing blow to the back of the head and her eyes met Spartacus’s once more as she fell to her knees.  A shiver lit up his back at the joining of their gazes, at the calmness he saw in her dark blue eyes as she fell. 

Spartacus looked about at the battle that was part raging and part waning around him.  Many Romans had fallen but even more rebels. 

“Take her,” he yelled to one of his men.  “I want her alive.”  He spun to address any of his men who could hear, “cut them down or take them captive, but do not allow for retreat.” 

* * *

Nasir’s hand on his arm steadied Agron as he watched Sura be dragged away from where she’d fallen.  Every fiber of his being needed to rush out there, needed to save his friend from certain death. 

“We cannot help her now,” Nasir said, his voice regretful, but right, “we must live to help her at next opportunity.” 

“And if there is none?,” Agron hissed, his eyes not turning from the sight of his friend being pulled unconscious atop a horse by a treacherous looking Roman. 

A moment passed before Nasir said his name, “Agron,” his voice beseeching, his hand tightening in its grip on Agron’s arm. 

Agron snarled over having to retreat, over having to draw back with Nasir and those still living, but he did it anyway.  He would trust his heart.  He would live to fight another day. 

He followed as Nasir led, his shield still latched to his arm, corralling those they could find – Crixus and Saxa among them.  It was a struggle pulling Saxa along after they glimpsed Gannicus fall in battle, surrounded by Romans, certain for torturous death.  But they managed, heading for the high ground in a hasty retreat. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been awhile since I updated. I'm sorry about that. Life gets in the way of my writing at times. I will try to make the next update quicker than this one. 
> 
> This isn't completely beta'd either, but I hope to re-read it tomorrow and make any necessary corrections. If you see anything glaring, please let me know! Thanks!

She knew where she was before she opened her eyes.  The dull ache in the back of her head; her hair matted and sticky with blood at her neck.  It was déjà vu… it was her vision, but worse – this time it was real.  She opened her eyes and was blinded by the brightness.  The colors weren’t so bright in her vision, the light wasn’t so white, and the icy chill of fear was more acute in the cold, stark room.  Her gaze fixed on the ground before her, and then she raised her head – agonizingly slow – and met the eyes of the man who stood against the wall before her.  

Her gaze was cool, calm, and even though she knew her body could tremble at any moment, she refused to show fear.  This was her fate.  And she would not shy from it. 

________________________________________

He paced angrily at the wall, casting grievous looks at the unconscious prisoner.  He startled slightly when he glanced again to see that she was awake, to see that those bottomless blue eyes were now staring into his.  Her gaze betrayed no fear or discomfort.  He knew that she couldn’t possibly be comfortable, kneeling there on the cold stones beneath her, her head wound still oozing slightly with blood. 

She was a Thracian.  And she was somehow the most breathtaking sight he’d ever seen. 

 _Would that I had been born a Thracian… I’d have bedded this woman… I’d have made her mine._ The thought dredged up unwittingly from the murky depths of his mind; it should have been unwelcome, it should have stirred anger and disgust in his gut, and yet somehow it did not. 

“There’s nothing you can do to me, nothing you can take from me,” she said suddenly, her voice strong and striking in the dank and empty room, “that hasn’t already been stolen by the Romans.”  The way she spat the last word, like it was distasteful, like it was the most heinous word in all of language – that stirred disgust in his gut, that made his stomach churn and roar in a way he wouldn’t have expected. 

“If you know what’s good for you, slave, you’ll keep your words to yourself… and remember your place in this world,” he growled, turning away from her with a force, whirling to put his back to her, suddenly leaning his palms against the wall, before pushing back off the wall and slamming a fist forth into it.  

“My place is here,” she murmured, the words just barely audible, and then something else afterward that sounded vaguely like “with Spartacus.”  But he must have misheard… the air playing tricks, stirring words in the breeze that simply were not there.  Because this woman did not know him… she could not know that it was Spartacus that stood before her and not some other Roman general.  And he did not know her… this woman with hair so dark and eyes so bright and bold… this woman whose voice was like silk on his skin.  This _seer_.  _No, the Gods do not bestow sight upon the living… there is no man or woman gifted by the fates._ He simply would not believe it. 

He growled to himself, anger welling up inside of him, and he slammed his fist into the wall again before whirling to face her, steeling her with a glacial glare, and then swept from the room leaving her finally trembling in his wake. 

In the hallway, he snarled an order at the soldier who stood guard.  “No one in, and no one out.  The slave is mine.”  The word hung in the air possessively, and as he gave it voice, he realized he wasn’t quite sure what he meant by it.  This threat that she was his, his to do what with?  Was he to kill her?  What did he want with this rebel woman who meant nothing to him?

“There are others who’d wish to speak to the seer,” came a voice from the hallway ahead, and he threw his head up to glare at Caesar who stood leant against the wall, his sword gripped and hanging idly at his side. 

“Then they’ll speak to me first,” Spartacus threatened, advancing on Caesar, who, to his credit, did not even so much as flinch.  _Cocky shit._

“Spartacus!,” Marcus reprimanded suddenly approaching them from the other hallway.  His friend’s gaze softened as he reached them, his eyes intent on Spartacus, and then he put a hand to Spartacus’s shoulder.  “If you have business with the seer, then we honor that,” Marcus said softly, and then glancing at Caesar with a cold look, “Spartacus’s word is as good as my own.  If he says something is so, it is as if I have said so myself.  Are we clear?” 

“Crystal, _”_ Caesar said with a defiant jut of his chin, and then he was pushing past them, moving down the hallway in the other direction, a slight swagger to his step as if he thought he had actually just come out on top somehow. 

________________________________________

It was only after Spartacus departed that Sura’s resolve broke, that tremors finally overtook her body, and that her strength began to crumble.  She let her head fall forward, resting it on her thighs, and let the tears flow hot and wet down her cheeks.  She was ashamed of them, but she would not wipe them away either.  These tears… they were as much a part of her as the fate that led her to this place, that led her tears to shed. 

 _I will die this day_.  And it was as much fact as it was fiction, as much fate as it was choice. 

Her thoughts turned to her rebel brothers and sisters left behind.  What of Agron?  Of Nasir?  Of Gannicus, Saxa, and so many others that were her family? 

The creak of the door jarred her mind from her thoughts and she raised her head, cheeks now dry, eyes wide and ready, to see Julius Caesar slip through the doorway, letting the door close softly behind him.  He smirked meeting her gaze, and a shudder went through her body.  She knew why he was here… she should have expected this. 

________________________________________

Spartacus heard her cry out as he approached, and without realizing it he quickened his step.  There was no guard at the door even though he knew when he’d left there had been one.  He pushed through the door and stepped inside to see her knelt on the floor before Caesar as the man pushed himself inside of her roughly, pounding against her flesh. 

“Caesar!,” Spartacus hollered and the man paused mid-thrust to look up at him with an eyebrow raised. 

“Do I ever distract you from Laeta’s sweet cunt?”  There was a hint of amusement behind Caesar’s words. 

“I told the guard that this one was to be left alone until I returned, you were there, you heard my command and yet you do not hold it to heed,” Spartacus said hoarsely, his voice angry and filled with rage.  He was struggling to calm himself as his eyes left Caesar’s and turned to the woman who faced him, her gaze calm and all-knowing despite her situation.  She didn’t tremble, and she didn’t cry.  She just stayed there, silent, and waiting. 

“And I assured the guards that you wouldn’t mind if I paid her a visit, friend,” Caesar punctuating the last word with a hard thrust into the woman’s unwanting heat.  Spartacus watched as the woman blinked from the force of it, but she did not cry out, did not shudder, just blinked and then met his eyes again, unafraid.  Caesar was still talking and Spartacus looked away from the woman to look back at his Roman brethren.  “I wanted this one since I was secreted away in the rebel camp in Sinuessa.  Wouldn’t give me the time of day, of course, but quite the ripe fruit regardless.” 

“She was not for you, I claimed her as mine,” Spartacus muttered beneath his breath, loud enough that Caesar heard, but low enough that it came out a growl. 

“You mistake intent, Spartacus,” Caesar said plainly, “you can have her back as soon as I’m done.  I’ve business with Crassus anyway… I need her but only a moment m--”

“You mistake **my** intent!!!!!,” Spartacus bellowed, interrupting whatever words Caesar intended to offer, “the seer is not for pleasure, yours or mine!”  It did not escape notice that the woman startled and flinched at his sudden outburst. 

Caesar looked offended, opened his mouth and then closed it before shoving the woman forward, yanking himself from her cruelly and standing up, letting his garments fall to cover his naked flesh.  “Crassus will hear of this,” he muttered as he made his way towards the door, but Spartacus was no longer looking at the man, his eyes now fell on the woman still knelt upon the floor.  He held no fear of Crassus.  They were brothers in arms, raised in blood, a bond far stronger than the name and glory of Julius fucking Caesar.  Caesar’s false tongue would fall upon deaf ears.  _Let the bitch bellow…_

As the door swung shut with a bang behind Caesar, Spartacus’s gaze remained cool and even, betraying nothing.  Her eyes didn’t waver from his and short of the one instance she’d flinched when he’d screamed at Caesar, she didn’t even so much as tremble now.  She was vulnerable there and he knew it as well as she did.  Her garments still torn and tattered, hiked up from where Caesar had taken her, her knees still cutting into unyielding, cold stone beneath them.  She barely breathed, and she didn’t blink. 

“Fucking – grhhh,” Spartacus shattered the silence with a curse and a scream of frustration.  Suddenly he was moving, stalking over to where she kneeled, his hand grabbing her by the arm roughly and yanking her to her feet.  One hand came up and gripped her by the neck tightly.  He felt her sharp intake of breath and saw her eyes water just slightly before she swallowed it down, her fear, her emotion, whatever it was he made her feel.  One hand still on her arm, the other still gripping her neck, and Spartacus backed her up, slamming her roughly – although dimly she realized, not maliciously – into the stone wall behind her.  She grunted slightly with the impact and blinked, her eyes shutting for just a moment before opening and looking again into his. 

There was something there in those bottomless blue eyes, something that gave him pause for but a moment, his grip on her neck loosening just slightly before he growled and tightened it, shaking her roughly and slamming her back against the wall again before releasing her with a frustrated snarl. 

She didn’t move, let the cold stone of the wall support her as she watched Spartacus back up a step, his eyes still intent on hers.  He advanced and this time – although it clearly killed her to do it – she flinched, turning her head and closing her eyes, scrunching up the features of her face, as Spartacus punched his fist against the wall near her head.  She felt the wall give way at her back, start to slide, and she stepped forward instinctually, her eyes opening and her head turning to look at the same time.  It was a door, carved into the wall, and it slid open now to reveal a dark hallway.  The blackness beyond was thick, so thick she couldn’t see just past the doorway.  She looked at him, shock evident across her features. 

“You release me?,” she whispered breathily. 

“Don’t think it a kindness,” he scowled, his eyes averting from her gaze for the first time since he’d entered the room. 

He opened his mouth to speak, opened his mouth to say the words that were echoing in his mind.  _Leave this place and never return, seer, never return._ The words were right there on his tongue and then he was silenced by the feel of her mouth upon his.  Her lips warm and needy against his own, the shock of it literal and figurative at the same time as a current of electricity made his lips tingle from her touch.  It took only a moment for him to recover from the shock, for his lips to make their own assault upon hers, his tongue slipping effortlessly and welcomed into her mouth, sliding against her own.  One of his hands snaked into her hair, her body flush against his, and he was left wanting as she broke the kiss, pulling only inches from him and whispering softly, “I am called Sura.”  And then she was gone, disappearing into the blackness beyond the doorway, her footsteps so light he couldn’t even hear them. It was at that moment, as he strained to hear her retreat from this place, her retreat from him, that he realized that he himself had begun to tremble. 

“Leave this place,” he murmured quietly with a shaky breath, and the rest of the sentence died before he could utter it as the thought of her never returning seized his heart.  _Sura._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anybody else really hate Caesar yet? I'm combining a little of Caesar and Tiberius here.


	5. Chapter 5

Agron didn’t pace, he lumbered, back and forth practically wearing a groove in the packed earth beneath his feet, his shoulders slumped, his head ducked so that it did not hit the roof of the tent.  And Nasir watched from the side, not interrupting, but letting his man exert the nervous energy that seemed to radiate off him in waves as he moved with heavy footsteps from one side of the tent to the other and back again.  Agron was cursing, muttering under his breath, and every now and again Nasir would catch snippets of it, a word here and there, the one most prevalent being Sura.  

“Agron,” Nasir said suddenly, his voice commanding and Agron stilled mid-step.  Nasir was there before him then, and without even a word Agron ducked down further still and put his forehead against Nasir’s, the only action that could soothe him in this moment.  

“Brothers,” a deep voice came from the flap of the tent and Agron and Nasir turned, a smile widening on Agron’s face.  

“Duro!  Baby brother delivered once again to my arms!,” Agron said with some semblance of relief as Duro approached and they mimicked the same gesture that Nasir and Agron had just done – foreheads touching, Agron’s palm cupping the back of Duro’s head, mirrored smiles now upon the two brothers’ faces.  It warmed Nasir to watch and he grinned; Duro was as much Nasir’s brother now as he was Agron’s.  Agron pulled Duro into a tight embrace suddenly, clapping his brother upon the back before Duro pulled away giving Agron a cutting but playful look.  

“My brother still thinks me suckling babe,” he said directing his words at Nasir, “after all this time… me, Duro, the slayer of Theokoles, the bringer of rain, and still the man directs me to teat as if a newborn child, worried a mere Roman could bring me down,” he paused pointing at Agron now in jest and then spreading his arms wide in a display of confidence, “not even on my worst day, brother, and certainly not on my best.”       

Agron opened his mouth to speak; a crass comment clearly poised upon his tongue from the look on his face, but was interrupted by another voice from the opening to the tent.  “Do not think you were alone in that task, oh _slayer of Theokoles_ , the scars upon my chest prove that you were not, pup,” Crixus scoffed from the entranceway, his voice hoarse and strained.  

“Crixus!,” Nasir exclaimed, the question in his eyes even as he feared giving it voice.  They had not broken words with Crixus since they’d pulled him from the battlefield only half-conscious and bleeding; they had brought him to the medicus immediately and so they did not yet know the fate of Naevia.     

With a look that spoke volumes, Crixus gave a miniscule shake of his head and closed his eyes a beat before opening them.  His heart was gone from this world.  

Agron was the first one to move, his hand going to Crixus’s shoulder, “we will make them pay, brother, those shit-fucking Romans, we’ll mire them in piss and blood until the whole lot crumble.”  

Crixus smiled slightly, “no one knows more about piss and blood and shit than the brothers from East of the Rhine.”  

Agron’s mouth twitched and he replied, “you shit-eating Gaul.”  Heavy laughter filled the tent for a moment and Crixus and Agron gripped arms in a sign of respect before Agron returned to Nasir’s side so they could discuss all that had occurred, who’d they’d lost, and how they would return the favor to Crassus and Spartacus and Caesar and all the rest of the fucking Romans.  

_____________________________________

Sura ran, her legs numb and unsteady, but she kept moving in the darkness of the woods at the edge of the Roman camp.  She chastised herself as she ran, but was breathing too hard and too heavy to put much weight behind her words.  She shouldn’t have kissed him.  It was stupid, ridiculous, insane.  He was a Roman.  The enemy.  The man who would kill her or cause her death.  She’d seen it.  She’d known it.  

_And yet you thought it fated for today_.  

She was wrong.  She had been wrong.  She had believed she’d die in that room, and yet somehow she had been wrong.  She wondered if she was actually wrong or if something had changed.  Had his releasing her changed her fate?  The Gods were silent in answer.  No help at all.  

She stopped suddenly, forced into it by the dull ache between her thighs that rippled up into her stomach and pierced further up into her chest.  _Fucking Caesar._ She could imagine how much Agron wanted to kill the man after he had been cause of grave injury to hands, and now she saw it doubled.  She leaned forward, her hands on her thighs and tried to catch her breath.  She was still struggling with it, her chest constricted and tight, heart pounding like it might literally rip a hole through her flesh, when the sound of a snapping twig at her back sent shivers down her spine.  She stood up straight, her back rigid and she closed her eyes.  

_Fate always finds a way._  


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s been some questioning about why I chose Caesar in the last chapter as Sura’s rapist rather than Tiberius. I actually went back and forth on that one quite a bit and I figured I’d share what my thought process was for anyone who might have been curious. I figure on the show that for Tiberius, his act of rape was always as a power play or revenge of some type – Kore was about punishing his father and Caesar was about shutting the man up and showing him who’s boss so to speak. There’s no power play or revenge to be had in Tiberius hurting Sura (plus he wouldn’t really even know the woman other than what he’s heard), so I eventually dismissed the idea of him being the actor in that part of the story. 
> 
> Now Caesar… he’s a bit of a mystery I think. On the one hand, I wasn’t sure I could see him forcing himself upon a woman, but then I was rewatching WotD and saw the scene when Caesar first met Kore. He might have forced himself upon her if Crassus hadn’t interrupted, and I should clarify that in my opinion, to Caesar (and probably most of the Romans), the act of forced sex against a slave isn’t rape to them – it’s the slave’s duty or whatever to pleasure the Roman master so to Caesar, his doing that to Sura wasn’t rape, it was… I don’t know in his mind justice or his right or something. There are more reasons why it was Caesar that I chose as well, but I’ll let him tell you those in the next chapter… :) 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and for your comments!

“Sura?,” Varro’s voice cut through the darkness and Sura felt her heartbeat steady as relief flooded through her.  He stepped out from behind a tree, the pale moonlight reflecting off his blonde hair, his face still somewhat streaked by blood but his mouth widening in a smile as soon as he had a clear view of her. 

“Varro,” Sura breathed out incredulously, and then she moved towards him hugging him as he returned the embrace.  “I feared you gone from this world.”  She stepped back and Varro smirked at her. 

“Me?  Gone from this world?  Perhaps your fates are having an off day.  It’ll take more than a half a thousand Romans to strike me from this life.” 

Sura smiled at the cockiness of his tone.  “Not just you, all of the Rebels, are there more that yet live?” 

Varro nodded, “come, we are not far from camp.” 

As they walked he questioned how she’d come to find them.  She told him of Spartacus, how he’d freed her, but left out some of the more personal details of the matter – Caesar, the kiss. 

“A trap?,” he questioned, glancing back at her, “could he have sent you back only to follow you here?”  

She shook her head but he wasn’t looking at her anymore.  “I do not think so, it didn’t seem planned, it… it’s hard to explain, but he… he wasn’t… he was not as expected.” 

Varro paused in his step and turned to look at her, his gaze earnest, clearly of a mind to say something but instead he shook his head and turned again to keep walking.  She stopped him with a hand on his arm. 

“Give it voice, I wish to know your thoughts.” 

He sighed but did not turn to look at her.  Instead, he said, “Aurelia… she woke from a dream last night, she dreamed of you.  Said the Oracle spoke to her… told her that you would be lost to us, lost to us at the hands of a great and unfortunate man.”  He looked at her then, his eyes searching her face, and then he frowned when he found it, the truth, the fear, the will of fate evident on her face.  He said nothing then, merely nodded, his lips turning down further, and then after a moment he heaved a great sigh and said, making his voice light, “Come.  Let us return, the others will be so pleased you are still of this world.  Agron especially, we all feared Nasir would have to knock the great giant unconscious in your absence.” 

Sura laughed.  “Has he worn a groove into the dirt of his tent yet?” 

Varro grinned, “almost.  It helped when Duro and I returned… but I fear we are poor substitute, ineffective balm compared to your own soothing embrace, seer.” 

As they headed off again in the direction of camp, Sura couldn’t help but smile and say under her breath, “oh Agron.” 

She had known Agron longer than any of them, met him first, and had been enchanted by the unpredictable and dangerous, yet surprisingly gentle, giant.  She had been sent by her domina – Lucretia had been her name – to please him as a champion gladiator could only be pleased by a body slave, only to discover that she was poor substitute for that which he truly desired.  Agron had been beside himself with apologies, not wishing to offend, but at the same time knowing that if he sent her away she would pay for it later at the hands of their domina or dominus.  He had let her take his bed that night and he himself had lain upon the hard floor at her bedside, a slumbering dog guarding her through the night.  He had protected her ever since.  He was the first to lend support when she’d started down the path of rebellion, led by the fates, her plans bolstered by a giant from the East of the Rhine. 

Duro had followed his brother’s lead on the matter of rebellion as he often did.  Agron was a brilliant gladiator, smart and quick despite his size, and although he lacked patience and control, he made up for it with tenacity.  Agron had all the makings of a great leader despite his at times vicious temper, but Duro had been the true star of Bathiatus’s ludus from the time the two brothers arrived.  While skill was Agron’s, it was luck that shone in spades on the youngest brother and it had been Duro who had fought alongside Crixus against Theokoles and it had been Duro who had finally taken down the legend and opened the heavens upon Capua in wondrous rain.  She marveled still sometimes at how Agron had never shown even an iota of jealousy over his brother’s glory.  Pride was the only emotion Agron ever displayed over Duro and his successes in the arena.  Pride and loyal – at times even laughable – resentment towards the only so-called enemy Duro and Agron had had at the ludus – Crixus, the undefeated Gaul.  The former Champion of Capua had struggled with losing his position in the ludus, especially to someone of Duro’s nature, and he’d fixated all his anger about it on the two German brothers.   

She smiled to herself at the thought of how so much had changed.  The undefeated Gaul, the bringer of rain, and the giant East of the Rhine… they were beyond being even brothers now, enemies no longer, a bond forged from the deceit of rebellion but now forever deepened; now they were forever bound by respect.

As she followed Varro around another set of trees and stepped out into the opening beyond, she sighed with relief at the torches that lit up the rebels’ camp before them. 

“Nasir… Agron!,” Varro called out, his voice deep but still low so as not to wake those fortunate enough to be sleeping.  Sura was about to silence him, to tell him not to bother, to let them rest while they still had opportunity, but before she could speak she glimpsed the hulking shape of Agron appear in the closest tent opening.  He was rubbing his eyes with the side of one still-bandaged hand, and then Nasir appeared to stand beside him as well, yawning as he did so. 

She couldn’t help herself, exclaiming her closest friend’s name, “Agron!” 

“Sura!,” there was awe in his voice but he wasn’t stilled by surprise, instead it jogged him from sleep and he was suddenly enveloping her in his arms, lifting her up so that she was suspended above the ground and spinning her in a circle.  She met Nasir’s eyes as soon as her feet touched the ground and he smiled, happiness evident on his expression. 

“It lifts heart to see your face again, Sura,” Nasir said simply and she grinned, pulling him into her and hugging him as well. 

“I would have your heart well lifted then… gratitude for taking care of our giant,” she whispered in his ear before releasing him.  There was a hint of blush to his golden-hued cheeks as he stepped back and away from her. 

Before she could say anything, she was lifted up again by Agron, his grip forceful as if he couldn’t believe she was really there and as if he thought she would fade away if he did not hold on tight.  She laughed, pounded her fists ineffectually and without conviction against his shoulder, “put me down, you gigantic oaf, I must see to the others as well.” 

“Never,” Agron responded with certainty, “I can never put you down, sister, never, my heart and I simply cannot bear it.”  But he relinquished her anyway despite his words, and before she stepped back to stand at Nasir’s side, she stood on tiptoe and pulled him down slightly to her level so that she could kiss his cheek. 

“What of Crixus… of Naevia… of Gannicus?,” she said, her eyes flitting to each of the men as she spoke.  Varro ducked his head, Agron’s shoulders hunched slightly, but Nasir held her gaze. 

“Crixus will mend,” he said softly, “the others will not.” 

Sura felt tears sting her eyes but she only nodded, her gaze steady upon Nasir before looking to Agron and then Varro and then back to Nasir again.  “We shall honor them, as we honor all who fall to the Romans.” 

“As they would have honored us had we been the fallen,” Agron said gruffly and nodded to her. 

________________________________________

“You did WHAT?!,” Crassus hollered, his hands shaking as they gripped the edge of the table.  His whole body was taut with rage, but Spartacus held fast in his stance and gaze.  He would not show anxiousness.  This had been his doing, his choice.  He had set the seer free; he would accept the punishment disbursed. 

Crassus’s gaze was fixated on the table, but now he raised his head, his eyes cold as they looked at Spartacus. 

“Explain yourself,” he said, his words sharp. 

Spartacus let out a shuddering breath and looked down.  “I have no explanation.” 

“Perhaps I can lend aid in explanation.”  Caesar’s voice came from the doorway, his footsteps had been so soft that neither Crassus nor Spartacus had heard him approach.  Spartacus looked up at him, narrowed his eyes at the man who was so often an enigma.  Everything Caesar did or chose to do was for Caesar, for his own benefit, and whatever aid he wished to lend could just as easily see Spartacus to chains as it could see him to noted position.  Spartacus was about to say as much when Crassus interrupted.

“Speak then, and let aid be received.” 

“There was an altercation between Spartacus and I.  The seer witnessed it and I fear she used her magic against him… I do not believe Spartacus would have set her loose otherwise, had she not forced him in some way.”  Spartacus blinked, his brow furrowing with Caesar’s words. 

“I see no wound inflicted,” Crassus muttered angrily. 

“Nor I, Imperator,” Caesar responded, “and yet, you know this man, he is like a brother to you, he is no traitor.  The treachery here lay only in the slave, the fucking seer.  She seeks to tear us asunder, by any means, to our own detriment, to cause havoc among us with the thought that one of our own would have set her free of his own accord.”  He spoke with conviction, and with his last word his eyes left the Imperator’s and met Spartacus’s instead. 

Caesar nodded as he met Spartacus’s eyes and Spartacus returned the motion.  Caesar’s own disobedience would be forgotten, one treachery for another.  Spartacus did not understand Caesar’s motivations here, but he would not question them – not yet anyway.


End file.
